


Suptober Day 23: Favorite

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angels are Weird (Supernatural), Canon Compliant, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Saps, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 13, Soft Dean Winchester, Stargazing, sharing a blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “Okay, so this is a tradition for you, buddy, right?” Dean answers. “So we'll go. Besides, this comet thing of yours, it only comes along every, what, twenty years? Fifty?”“A thousand,” Cas replies.Fucking angels, man.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 42
Kudos: 263





	Suptober Day 23: Favorite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProlixInSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProlixInSpace/gifts).



> Whoops, one day late!
> 
> I went through three iterations of what I wanted to write for "Favorite" yesterday that I was just not satisfied with, before I gave up and decided to go to sleep. Then this morning I woke up to the most adorable, gorgeous prompt from wrongplanet/prolixdreams, and it just made my day. 
> 
> So she gave me permission to write this, and here we are!
> 
> You can see it as a little soft interlude floating somewhere in the middle of S13, if you would like!

Cas is, as Dean knows very well, kind of a dramatic sonofabitch.

Sure, no-one would ever think that just to _look_ at him, with that big old trench coat and the way he holds his shoulders tucked down, smaller than he actually is until they’re standing shoulder to shoulder and nose to nose and Dean realizes with a swoop that they’re almost the same height. Even his big, dark voice—unmistakable though it is—is quiet most of the time, enough so that it sounds just _weird_ when he yells.

Sure, he’s gentle. Sure, he’s the world’s original optimist. Yeah, he is—at the very soul of him—just… kind in a way that Dean thinks they, as Winchesters, forget how to be sometimes, and how he is when he’s watched the bullshit that humanity gets into for millennia, Dean’s not even sure.

That doesn’t mean Cas _isn’t_ really fucking dramatic sometimes, though.

Sam laughs when Dean says it, and answers, “I dunno, he learned how to behave in a vessel from someone, and that someone is _us_ , Dean.” That just goes to show that Cas has got everyone fooled; he’s probably been this way for _eons_.

Bobby would agree with Dean, but Bobby was also in the barn that day. Bobby was there for the flap of wind rattling old shingles so hard the rickety structure tried to wave hello around them, the way the barn doors slapped themselves open in a way that just about yelled ‘something wicked this way comes!’ and every light bulb in the place gave up the ghost so fast Dean could almost see the spirits of little scared light bulbs screeching “run away! Run awaaaaay!”

Dean still maintains that Cas ‘misjudged’ and hit the roof first rather than just landing, ‘cause sure as hell nothing’s ever _rattled_ around them like that since, unless they’re about to get smote by a fucking archangel. That got him a glare meant to have sparks and a “ _I don’t ‘misjudge’ flying, Dean, I’ve been doing it since before that fish that would become you crawled out of the muck,”_ the first time Dean said it—eyeroll. Uh-huh.

But Dean doesn’t tease him about flying anymore. It seems too cruel, even for Dean, now that Cas’s wings are clipped.

(The fact that Cas replaced his wings with the ugliest fucking Lincoln Continental Pimpmobile that’s ever been spat off an assembly line, with its lowrider mods, and that gold color that only a colorblind pigeon would call ‘jubilee’ just proves his point, though.)

So when Cas sighs for the third time, big and sad, Dean sighs, too, tilts the beer he’s barely nursing away from his face, and hits ‘pause’ on All Saint’s Day.

“Dude,” he complains, as Hatchet Man looms over a girl in leg warmers and teased hair. Why do they all have teased hair in these? Dean’s not sure he thought that look was hot even when he was _living_ it, and since he was in his teens then, he’s pretty sure he thought _everything_ was hot.

“What?” Cas says, absently, still looking off into the world at large rather than at the TV. Then he refocuses, and reaches for a handful of popcorn. (He likes popcorn, but only made on the stove; no butter, just a little salt, sometimes just a sprinkle of cayenne. So he gets his own bowl. Never makes it himself, either—not that Dean would trust him not to burn down the kitchen, anyway.)

“If you don’t want to watch, you don’t have to, okay?” Dean complains, and flaps a hand at the entrance to the Cavern of Deanitude: The Deancave. (He ultimately decided to use both.) He ain’t gonna have his All Saints’ Day rewatch of All Saints’ Day ruined by a sulky angel, especially when he doesn’t even know what Cas is sulking about this time.

“No, no,” Cas answers politely, scrunching down further into his recliner. “I am enjoying it. The physics involved in making that thick corn syrup project like that is quite interesting. Very impressive, actually, considering that it’s _much_ thicker than blood.” He frowns at the screen, though. “Why don’t they just use blood, though? There are so many slaughterhouses, most of it just goes to waste.”

Uh, okay then. Dean can’t help but chuckle. See, things like this are why they still sometimes can’t let him talk to the normal. “C’mon, Cas,” he chides, with a laugh, but he reaches out and thumps Cas’s calf gently with the side of his foot. “Humans think blood is really gross. Besides, it gets thick and chunky and it smells bad.” He thinks about it. “They’d probably have to refrigerate it. Does blood turn to solid when it’s cold? It doesn’t, right?”

“Not if the coagulating factors in the plasma are removed.” Cas is leaning towards Dean a little like he thinks he’s got a good idea—it’s not quite personal space, but it’s just the way he sort of lists to the side when he gets excited or confused or happy. “I feel like that would make the screaming more authentic, wouldn’t it?”

Dean laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, maybe. They did that in Psycho, you know. That black-and-white movie we watched with the motel killer—you know the one.”

“Norman Bates,” Cas agrees.

“Yeah. During the shower scene when Marion was getting stabbed, they put ice cubes in the water. Didn’t tell her first.”

Cas actually _shudders_. “Cold water during showering _is_ really unpleasant,” he agrees, seriously.

See, things like this are why Cas is always gonna be Dean’s favorite angel.

But it’s about half an hour later, with David Yaeger chanting “We all do bad things sometimes!” when Cas sighs again, bigger than before.

This time, Dean just slaps his beer down into his cupholder and twists towards him. “Alright, buddy, _what?_ ” he barks.

Cas doesn’t meet his eyes, still staring off into eternity for long enough that Dean thinks he’s not going to answer or is maybe having an angel seizure or _something_. Finally, Dean’s just about to haul him up and kick him out—if he wanted to watch movies with a wet blanket he’d either get Sam, or an actual wet blanket—Cas refocuses on the here and now.

“A comet is passing through the inner solar system tonight,” he says, abruptly. He still doesn’t look at Dean. “I… think? I… its rotational axis was changing a little the last time I saw it, so I wasn’t sure it would ever come back. But I think it might.”

Fuckin’ _angels_ , man. From fake to real blood to ice cube showers to comets. Dean frowns himself out of his irritation. “Okay?” Dean’s head spins a little at that. “Uh… is it gonna come close to the Earth, or something?” Crap. Dean can deal with the apocalypse, the end of the world, God and the Darkness, but he can’t exactly deal with _this_ shit.

“You watch too many movies,” Cas tells him, not exactly unkindly. Just a little condescending, though. Then he considers. “Though a small one _did_ collide with Jupiter about thirty years ago, I suppose. Not whole—the gravity ripped it apart before it got to the surface, of course—but the biggest piece made the most amazing dark spot. Almost as big as Earth.”

“Anyone ever told you you’re _really_ not comforting?” Dean mutters, and turns to give this conversation his full attention. “Okay, okay. So… there’s a comet. Like Halley’s, or something?”

Cas’s smile is small and soft, far away. “Like, yes, but _that_ one gets all the attention. Rafael was the one who pulled it into orbit—he was very proud of it. But this one, well. I never used to miss it. It’s my favorite.”

Dean frowns, and sits forward to get his ass a little out of where the recliner’s pulling it in. “You… have a favorite comet?”

Cas nods, and folds his hands in front of him, looking down at his thumbs. Dean got him to take off his trench coat and suit jacket and tie, so he could at least _look_ comfortable even if it doesn’t make any difference to him if he’s _actually_ comfortable. “It’s very small,” he says. “It’s not an important one. Just… you know.” He shrugs a little. “I used to visit it every time it came through.”

It takes him a long moment to think about what in the world Cas might be jonesing for. “Well, okay,” Dean agrees. “You wanna go see it?” He reaches for the remote. It’s cold out—it _is_ November 1st—and there’s frost in the air, but it could be worse.

Cas stops him, tapping his shoulder gently. “No, Dean, no, you’re watching your movie. It’s ‘All Saints’ Day for All Saints’ Day,’” he repeats Dean’s slogan like it’s a prayer. “It’s probably diverted course, anyway.”

But Cas looks just a little sad about that before he squares his shoulders.

“Well, if we get to an open field, you know which direction it ought to be coming from?” Dean asks, and he pushes himself to his feet and turns off the TV, with finality. “I mean, you can’t… visit with it anymore, or anything, but maybe you can just see it.”

“But… this is a tradition, for you.” Cas gestures at the TV.

“And this is a tradition for _you_ , buddy, right?” Dean answers. “Besides, this comet thing of yours, it only comes along every, what, twenty years? Fifty?”

“A thousand,” Cas replies.

Fucking _angels,_ man.

“Sure,” Dean says, ‘cause really, what else does a mostly normal human guy with a mostly normal human lifetime say to that?

There’s a weird moment when Sam looks up from his reading and asks where they’re going, and Cas answers, “We are going to find my favorite comet! Would you like to come along?”

Because Dean’s gut does this little hard knot, and he wants to say “Nah, of course he doesn’t, right, Sammy?”

He doesn’t let that out, though. Dean… well, he and Sam are in each other’s pockets all the time, have been for most of their lives. It’s normal to want a little time apart, even though they don’t seem to _need_ it to keep from killing each other the way he’s seen a lot of brothers do.

It would be _weird_ if Dean wanted to just do this with Cas. Wouldn’t it?

“No… All Saints today?” Sam asks, and he’s looking at _Dean,_ not Cas. “Thought that was your thing.”

But Dean looks down, instead, to juggle the thermos of hot chocolate— _yes,_ he likes hot chocolate, made from fucking _scratch_ , thank you—and the big woolly blanket that he found in the same storeroom as the dead guy robe, too big for anything but a picnic blanket or a cover for a king bed, and there aren’t any in the Bunker. He shrugs. “I can watch that anytime, how often do we get to see some cosmic heavenly body stuff?”

Cas’s eyebrows arch. “There _was_ that video—”

“ _Aaanyway_ —” Dean jumps in. “So, you coming?”

Okay, so _that_ experiment with porn went downhill real fast when Cas asked, “Why has part of her labia been excised? That seems very uncomfortable. And why—”

“ _And_ on that note, have fun, guys. Dress warm,” Sam waves two fingers at them.

Dean doesn’t acknowledge that Sam seems to be smiling more at him than at Cas, and that earnest expression is still pointed right at them as they troop up the stairs. What, Dean can indulge Cas in some of his angel weirdnesses now and again.

But Cas is almost wiggling when they get into Baby, excited and nervous and quiet, hopeful the way Dean hasn’t seen him in a long time. It’s pretty rare that they talk about the things Cas misses as an angel, and even rarer for him to bring them up. Sometimes Dean doesn’t know if it’s because he really doesn’t miss them—and he wouldn’t be too surprised if that were the case, because _winged dicks_ —or because losing something Cas has no hope of getting back is too painful to talk about.

He wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, too. He’s been there.

There’s a lot of empty land around them, Lebanon’s seated soft in the middle of nowhere, but it takes Dean awhile before he finds a field with a good stretch of southwest sky rather than with the edge of the horizon bitten by trees. Cas is already looking up, his chin turned to the sky, when they climb out of the front seat, and there’s a small smile parting his lips. “This is perfect,” he says.

Right now, it is.

It's a nice night, though the cold is the kind that’s deceptive: it feels good through Dean’s lined leather and flannel and jeans, just on this side of too warm without the cut and bite it’ll have in a few months. They’ve had enough long nights waiting in forests or fields, outside barns that aren’t actually abandoned, though, to know that this kind of cold creeps in. It starts at the wrists and the neck, it eases up and down, and if a smart guy doesn’t hold tight against it, it’s gonna be inside and he’s going to be off his guard before he knows it.

Dean’s not that smart.

But he _does_ have a blanket and hot chocolate tonight, so there’s that.

No-one’s been out here in a while; there’s no tracks in the grass, and Baby settled into it soft, cutting her wheels through. Dean brought the blanket to sit on, but the grass is still trying to be green even this late in the year, not crunchy or pokey, and when Cas sits right down on the ground—because of course he does—he pats a little to the side of him like he’s feeling the surface of it. Then he shifts a little over—because one foot of bare cleared field is apparently different from the next—and pats a spot next to him, invitingly.

Well, okay. Dean sits down on the grass beside him, and it’s not bad. The ground’s surprisingly soft under his ass, not frozen hard yet. His breath is barely visible in front of him in the cold, a waft of clouds, and a bigger one when he sips his chocolate.

“There are going to be so many dandelions blooming here in spring,” Cas says, absently, and he pinches what Dean thinks is a leaf, rubbing it together between his fingers. “Do you think we can come and see them then? They will be so _cheerful_.”

Dean thinks it’s sort of ambitious to plan for them being alive in spring. They’ve got to get Mom and Jack back, and that means going back into a world where there are no dandelions, no grass, no light, no _life_. They’re two impossible ingredients away from a world where him and Sam are dead, and Dean’s pretty sure that it desperately, desperately wants them really, _especially_ dead. Dean’s used to living for the day to day, ‘cause there hasn’t been a tomorrow in a long, long time.

Cas doesn’t think like that, though. He never has.

“You like dandelions, huh?” Dean asks, starting to tuck the blanket around himself. It’s heavy and solid the way things made to last are, and it smells like cedar chips.

“Yes. I like yellow,” he answers, peacefully. He’s just a lighter silhouette in the dark, features a blur of contrasts because there’s no light anywhere here to cast shadows—no streetlights, no light pollution, and Baby is a warm bulk behind them that Dean can feel, but can’t see. “It was the first color I saw, when I was created.” Dean can’t see his smile, it’s slight, but he can hear it in Cas’s voice. “Also, they become fluffy, and I enjoy that as well.”

Well, that all explains the bee thing, too, Dean guesses.

“What’s it called?” he asks. “Your comet.”

Cas shakes his head, his trench coat rustling. He didn’t put his tie back on, and the cloth of his button-down is very white in the darkness. “I don’t think humans ever gave it a name,” he admits. “It’s very small. Maybe a number, if anything.”

Dean laughs, and cups his hands around his thermos. Even with the fancy vacuum seal on it, he can feel the warmth of it against his fingers. The cold is starting to creep in, and he pulls the blanket a little higher against his neck. “It as big as you were, Chrysler?”

Cas smiles, softly, but wide enough for Dean to see it. When he tilts his head back and looks up at the sky, his neck is a long, pure pale line against the night. “Oh. Well, it’s small, for a comet, just about nine miles across. But it’s still much bigger than I am…” he looks down at his hands, and flexes them, the smile curving sadly at the edges. “Than I was. Before I was… diminished.”

Dean doesn’t know how to deal with that—how to tell Cas that he never knew him when he was a tower of light and intent, he’s only ever known him this way, and he can’t imagine he’d like him any better back then. “How come it’s your favorite?”

“Its tail is very long for its core. The wings of my true form were like that. And it sings,” Cas answers, “I found the resonance of it very pleasant.”

“It… what?” Dean asks, blankly.

“Like a dolphin?” Cas answers, like that’s supposed to be helpful. “Well, not a dolphin, because a dolphin’s sound waves travel through water, and there isn’t atmosphere. But this one produces enough plasma that it vibrates with its the magnetic field, and it makes pretty little sounds that get louder when it reaches perihelion—it’s only just barely big enough to have its own field, you see.”

“I, uh, I really don’t.” He doesn’t know what about half of those words mean. But Dean settles his chin into his blanket—a little tired, but content. “That’s cool, I guess.”

“It is,” Cas answers, and he’s warming up to his topic, now. He leans back on his one hand, the line of his legs stretched out in front of him on the grass, thighs a little apart because Cas doesn’t sit gracefully. He doesn’t do much gracefully other than fight, and Dean is, stupidly, a little fond of it. “Some comets are like… like that special ice cream you got, that one time. The deep-fried ice cream!” He chuckles a little to himself, his own little joke.

Okay, now Dean’s _officially_ lost. “ _What?_ ”

“Crunchy on the outside,” Cas chortles. “And cold and fluffy on the inside.” He turns to look at Dean’s blank expression, his eyes warm even in the cold night, the dark. They’re friendly, even if Dean can’t see their blue. The line of his hair disappears into the night sky. His scruff is made for petting. Wait, what? “My comet has amorphous ice on the inside. The water molecules flash-froze, so in the center it’s extremely cold, but it’s malleable. Like frozen cotton candy? It’s enjoyable to play with.”

He considers. Dean bites down on asking whether he’s talking about actual frozen cotton candy, or actual _comet innards_ , since he’s pretty sure that he knows the answer.

“But the outside can’t stay frozen when it nears the sun, so the molecules cluster together, and it forms this crispy little shell around a soft, frozen center… oh!” Cas brightens, sounding excited. “Like… like Han Solo? In the carbonite.”

The sound of Dean sputtering breaks the soft, cool silence of the field around him in a way that’s so human that Dean’s almost embarrassed about it.

“Dude,” he gasps, once he can breathe again for not cackling. “That’s _weird_.”

Cas thinks absolutely _nothing_ of making a comparison between comet guts, deep fried ice cream and Han Solo in carbonite. Goddamn.

“It’s your culture that made the movie,” Cas points out, a dry, sassy asshole to the very end. “ _I_ did not come up with the idea of flash freezing humans. And comets do it by themselves.”

Dean forgets, sometimes.

No, that’s not true. He forgets a lot. He might laugh about Cas powering into the barn, with his little shoulders and blazing blue eyes and his tax accountant form. He might forget, because angels are dicks in suits with knives that even Dean considers phallic, and he’s watched enough of their wings turn to dust that he knows that they’re fallible, and killable. Cas makes mistakes, a lot of them.

But Cas is immortal, eternal. He’s strange and _other_ except when he’s not; he waits a thousand years to see a comet and almost gives it up to watch 80s slasher films with Dean. He’s been around since the dawn of time, and if God is kind—he’s not—and if fate is good—Dean has his doubts, he’s met one of them—Cas’ll still be around to see this comet come back again next time.

He’s Dean’s best friend anyway.

Cas says “I love you, I love all of you,” to them like it really means something to him, like it’s the first time he’s ever meant it, because there’s some bullshit that’s apparently that much easier to get out when you’re an immortal winged space traveler crammed into a tax accountant jar.

“That looks very cozy,” Cas says, and he gestures to the blanket burrito Dean’s made of himself.

Dean blinks. “Are you feeling cold?”

Then he realizes just how stupid a question that is when Cas was just talking about holding _space ice_ in his hands.

Cas cocks his head and thinks about it. “No,” he decides. “No, of course not. But I know some things feel good even if they aren’t necessary.”

Dean only hesitates for a moment. He remembers putting a blanket over Cas and the way he hunched down into it, when that attack dog spell had him—maybe Cas likes blankets, likes warmth; maybe that’s why he wears that coat of his all the time. He flicks the corner of the thick grey blanket open, waving it at Cas, and the cold that wafts in is sharp and toothy. “Well, get in here, there’s plenty,” he invites.

Cas doesn’t hesitate as he crawls closer. He even makes a small, happy sound as he tucks a corner of the blanket around himself, and nudges in to wrap it over his shoulders.

There really… isn’t enough room. Dean sort of misjudged. (Did he?) They have to sit thigh to thigh to get the blanket all the way around both of them, the extra of it pooling on their legs, and Cas has to hold it closed around their shoulders, because it won’t stay that way with two bodies underneath it. But he doesn’t seem to mind, making little snuffling noises as they rearrange, and at one point, Cas plops his head on Dean’s shoulder ‘cause the guy has no idea he’s probably not supposed to do something like that.

Dean doesn’t tell him.

He definitely doesn’t tell him how good it feels, and how his tongue is thick and hot and sweet in his mouth in a way that has nothing to do with hot chocolate.

They sit in silence, Cas scanning the sky. It seems like the world is getting a little brighter, but Dean knows that that’s just his eyes adjusting.

It might be minutes, it might be hours. Dean settles in for the long haul. He doesn’t get quiet like this very often, and it’s easier to let the inside of his brain be blank. He doesn’t have a laptop, and his phone is still in his pocket. Cas smells clean and warm and wholesome—like wet grass and detergent, not the least fucking bit like an everlasting intent tower at all.

The next time Dean remembers to sip at his chocolate, it's gone cold and thick, and he grimaces. He doesn’t think Cas is going to notice, but maybe his body goes tight, or something.

“Here,” Cas says, softly. He wriggles around beside Dean, under the blanket, and pats a hand awkwardly over—patting right over Dean’s chest as he does so, and Dean almost laughs at the tickle of it, but fortunately Cas’s hand hits his forearm before it ends up even _more_ awkward. Though he doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Cas’s hand is sliding along his arm, up to… it wraps over the back of one of Dean’s, where he’s holding his thermos in both. Cas’s palm and fingers are coarse and warm, and Dean didn’t even realize that he was cold by comparison. “Close your eyes, you’ll ruin your night vision.”

Dean does, obedient even though he’s normally the first one to give Cas sass right back. He doesn’t feel the grace flowing through Cas, but he feels the thermos get warmer in his hands—and then just a _little_ warmer still. Not uncomfortably hot, but close.

Dean should probably ask Cas how much longer they’re planning to be out here waiting, but he doesn’t.

Then, just as Dean’s having to tilt the thermos almost towards the sky to get the last freshly-warm drops out of it, Cas sits straight up. The suddenness of it almost yanks the blanket open again, and the little rush of cold is shocking, but Cas clutches at the edge and wedges it closed again almost as soon as it opens. “Oh!” he exclaims.

And when Dean looks over, shocked by the low astonishment in his voice, Cas’s face is soft and warm with a simple pleasure, his head tilted high and proud, his full lips parted. Dean shouldn’t be able to see him hardly at all, but he can, and it’s not just because his own eyes are probably all pupil right now for how long they’ve been sitting in the dark.

Cas is _glowing_. He’s glowing very, _very_ faintly, a wisp of ice-blue curling at the edges of his eyes.

“Oh, Dean, _look_ ,” Cas breathes. The angelic glow hovering just barely over his skin shimmers. Those eyes are the bluest Dean’s ever seen them in the almost-not-there light, and wide with wonder. “Look, look, it’s here. It came back!”

That’s when Dean realizes that Cas didn’t actually think it would.

Dean looks up. The sky is _amazing_ , out here—Dean can’t remember the last time he took the time to look at the sky, ‘cause if they’re out at night half the time something’s trying to eat their fucking heads or they’re driving to yet another town where something’s trying to—well, that old familiar picture. But here, in rural Kansas, not a Rougarou to be seen, it’s peaceful, and the horizon goes twinkling on into forever.

He's never seen a comet. Or, at least, he’s never looked. He knows what they’re supposed to look like, with the little tail coming off them rather than just the static blink of stars.

But Dean squints up at the sky, and all he can see is infinity, lights sparkling across the surface of it. It’s still beautiful, though; Dean feels small and bright in the middle of it, sitting cuddled with his favorite angel.

“Where?” he asks, softly. Cas is so close, and he’s leaning in because Cas does that when he’s excited—he tilts. He’s heavy and solid against Dean’s shoulder, both of them wrapped in a blanket that smells like someone thought to take care of it, and it sure as hell feels like there’s gonna be a tomorrow.

“There, there, just…” Cas sticks a hand out of the blanket and waves in a direction that’s completely unhelpful, somewhere to the side. “Off the shadow of Casseopoeia.” He sighs, happily. “Oh, isn’t it beautiful? Look at its _tail_.”

Dean looks and looks, scanning the sky, but when he glances up, all he can see are stars.

That’s when he sort of realizes that yeah, Cas can see it. Cas can definitely see it, and Dean hasn’t seen him grinning this big in _years_. He's saying something low and prayerful about vaporizing gas particles.

But Dean? Dean’s human. He’s got these two tiny little eyes, not a million of them, and no grace to speak of.

He probably can’t see Cas’s favorite little comet at all.

But Cas is smiling so brightly, glowing like a happy angelic firefly, and Dean bumps him back gently with his shoulder. He takes the last sip of his rewarmed hot chocolate.

“Yeah, Cas,” he answers, softly, smiling back. “It’s great.”

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Is it wrong to say writing that gave me such feels? Because it gave me such feels. <3 And yes, some comets do "sing" in that way (supposedly comet P67 did) and that comparison to deep fried ice cream was made by Real Live Scientists, not just Cas. ;)
> 
> The prompt, from wrongplanet/prolixdreams: today's destiel daydream: Dean and Cas and one blanket out on a cold night to watch a comet that comes by just about every thousand years. Cas, of course, makes an offhand comment about how he never misses it. They stay out altogether much longer than necessary, such that Cas winds up having to angelically reheat Dean's forgotten thermos of cocoa.
> 
> If you're so inclined to share in the madness, come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond).


End file.
